


Heiress Black

by DustySoul



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beauxbatons, CSA, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse, Dark, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Harry is Lord Black, Harry is Lord Potter, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Metamorphmagus, Metamorphmagus Harry Potter, Mind Healer, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Discovery, Snape is a bad person, St Mungo's Hospital, Therapy, To repeat: Snape is a really bad person, Trans, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Harry Potter, Transgender, Transition, Transphobia, trans author, transfer student
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21921016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustySoul/pseuds/DustySoul
Summary: A few days into the summer of 1993, Harry discovers the night bus on his evening wanderings. One discovery leads to another. Harry ends up as heir(ess) of two noble houses and living in Number 12 Grimmauld Place.When Harry comes to see the ancient house as home, the blood wards at Privet Drive are threatened. The fallowing events irrevocably alter Magical Britain's government, free a wrongfully convicted criminal, and revives the House of Black.
Relationships: Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter
Comments: 43
Kudos: 258





	1. Witches Robes

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not comment on my spelling or recommend I get a Beta reader.
> 
> I am severely dyslexic and I find such comments deeply discouraging and even triggering. This is true even if it's accompanied by positive feedback.
> 
> I'd say I'm doing this for fun but I'm not finding writing this fun as it's a purged of my own sexual and other childhood traumas. But I am doing this in my free time, for free.
> 
> Aside from the spelling I do not feel the writing is particularly good, I find many other faults aside from my spelling. This work deserves better. At some point I will most likely go back and bring it up to the standard it deserves, or as close as I can, and hopefully push beyond my current skill
> 
> But for now it's screaming inside me and I just desperately need to get it out. And the trickle of incredibly sweet comments as I push forward are so, so, so, so helpful.
> 
> I deeply appreciate you all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a vicious attack, Harry Potter is in St. Mungos long term care ward with seemingly nowhere else to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for (one line of) internalized transphobia, and flash back to the events presiding the rape.

“Huh?” Harry starts as sound breaks through the fog. It is his name. Someone is saying his name.

Awareness seeps back into his empty mind.

He can feel his chest, the ache of it. He can feel his breathing, too shallow and too quick. He sucks in a great breath. He shudders with it.

He can feel the chair supporting him. He can feel his hands, the weight of the back of one in the palm of the other, the weight of them both settled in his lap. He can’t quite feel his fingers, though. He twitches them. They move. He receives a faint buzzing sensation for the effort.

“Harry.”

That voice again.

He looks up. A witch sits across from him. Her features sharpen into focus, as if he was putting on his glasses. Her expression is open, relaxed, and patient.

His eyes slide off her. He stares into the middle distance.

“What… What was the question?” His voice rasps.

“I was asking if you’ve thought about your future."

She pauses.

“Oh.”

He licks his lips. They’re dry and cracked. There’s a glass of water on the table. He drinks from it.

He thinks. He thinks. But his mind is empty.

“The future.” He repeats.

His solicitor, Mr. Hawthorne, asked him a similar question.

“What would be the best outcome of Mr. Dursley’s arrest?” 

The answer had been screaming inside him - screaming inside him from the moment his Uncle, in his most quiet, most venomous voice, snarled into his ear, “How dare you! How dare you walk through our neighbourhood, walk into our home, dressed…” He’d spluttered, “Dressed as a freak! And not just in their unnatural robes either!”

Hearing those last words, Harry froze. His Uncle was dragging Harry up the stairs. Harry stumbled. His Uncle nearly dislocated his shoulder.

Maybe his shoulder _had_ been dislocated. The healers explained his injuries, more than once, even, but the information kept sliding out of his mind. With magic, it was a matter of seconds to fix a dislocation. There was something about his insides being all messed up, that some thing ruptured, had burst open, and was bleeding into the empty space inside of him.

  


He feels so aware of that empty space now. It feels like he's still bleeding.

He told Mr. Hawthorne, “I can’t ever go back there. I want to make sure, no matter what happens, no one can **ever** send me back there.”

And now no one could.

Once it had been explained to Vernon Dursley that his crimes could be tried in the Wizarding world, that their trials included the use of truth serum and the viewing of memories, and that their jails were guarded by dementors - the personification of death and despair - he was grateful to take a plea bargain.

“There are many options.” The witch from the Muggle Liaison Office says. “Of course, you can still spend the holidays at Hogwarts-”

A stabbing pain shoots through Harry. He thinks he might sick up.

Snape’s face is suddenly all he can see. His words ring in his ears.

“No!” He doesn’t mean to yell, doesn’t remember standing up, knocking over his chair.

But he’s on his feet and dizzy and shaking and any second now he’s going to be sick. He’s going to be sick.

Only a few days after he discovered he was heir Potter-Black, Harry ran away.

The Blacks owned a town house in London, crammed in the middle of a muggle neighbourhood.

There, he cleaned out one of the bedrooms. Armed with a knife and his dragon hide gloves, he explored and scavenged the rest. (Except for the one which once belong to Regulus Arcturus Black. He avoided it, not because of the sign on the door, but because Kreature made it very clear it was to be left alone.) He filled his wardrobe with so many lovely things. It held more clothes than he'd ever owned.

Dressing one day, doing up the fussy little buttons, Harry caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He stared, and finished dressing in a daze.

He never cared much about his appearance. He'd always been yelled at for being too scruffy and there wasn't anything he could do about it. His hair never lay flat and he had nothing to wear except Dudley's cast offs. Then he spent two years wearing uniforms and at least they fit.

But this robe, and the rest in his wardrobe, were ones he chose himself, chose because he _liked_ them. He never thought he could _look_ like this. _Like what?_ he couldn't say. A feeling he could not name thrummed inside his chest. Tears pricked at his eyes.

The mirror said something incredibly rude.

Harry laughed. He laughed and laughed and threw himself on his bed and cried and laughed some more.

After the incident involving Regulus' room and a fight over the kitchen, Harry and the crazy house elf entered a truce.

He took etiquette lessons from the just as crazy portrait of Lady Black, memorized the Black family tree, and transcribed the letters she dictated to her ‘dishonourable, blood-traitor son’. The last task turned into practice schooling his expression. Harry'd already seen Sirius' bedroom and decided he must be very cool. And Lady Black's ravings about her son's transgressions and boyhood antics were hilarious and brave.

Then, he learned Sirius ran away. He set aside the lap desk and walked away. It took the portrait a few seconds to notice he'd gone.

She was just paint and canvas and spell work.

And Sirius was a stranger.

He hunched in on himself.

Sirius' was his dad's best friend.

In the mirror of Erised, had Sirius been among the grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousin, the family he'd never know? He couldn't remember.

He never knew his dad.

He'd wanted to, god, how he always wanted to. And now he knew more of Sirius than he did his own father. All he had of James was an invisibility cloak. But of Sirius... there was an entire room of things, it felt lived in. Hell, his defiant, rebellious, Gryffindor spirit was plastered across the walls.

Lady Black couldn't hurt him. She praised him, praised his attentiveness and dedication. She praised his progress and his interest not just in etiquette, but the family history and family magic, politics, and household management. Even dear Narcissa hadn't been so studious.

She taught him all the things a young witch of his station should know.

Now... he should probably stop playing dress up.

The rest of the house felt dark and oppressive. Even the space Harry carved out for himself, meticulously cleaned and the precious things he gathered felt tainted.

He slept in Sirius' bed that night, thoughts tumbling through his head.

He was _safe_ here. Well, as safe as he could be, living in a house full of dark pests and cursed objects. Which was a lot safer than at the Dursley's home. Wouldn't his mother and father, and therefor, his father's best friend, want him to live somewhere where he wasn't belittled and beaten and starved? 

Her portrait was here, but Lady Black wasn't. And neither was Sirius.

The people who had cared about him, once, before they were gone, would want him to live someplace safe.

In the end, Harry never had the chance to decide if he would talk to the portrait again.

“Alright. It’s alright. It’s alright, Harry.” The woman says, “Why don’t you sit down? Have some more water?”

It shattered when Snape burst through the front door.

He does as she says. His hand trembles as he grips the glass.

He’d been on the stairs, on his way to breakfast.

He froze. Their eyes locked.

“What -?” But before Harry could properly form a question Snape strode to him and grabbed his arm in a bruising grip.

“There you are, Mr. Potter.” He snarled, “I’ve been sent to take you back to your relatives.”

The witch says, “Do you need anything else? I can ask one of the healers for a calming draft?”

Except Harry couldn’t go back to his relatives. It was safe, here, something like home. But he didn't need safe, he didn't need home, he didn't need family.

But he couldn't go back wearing robes - _w itches_ robes.

He breathes. He breathes. And breathes.

form fitting witches robes which flared out at his waist into what was undeniably a skirt, even by Wizarding standards. A beautiful, billowing skirt which fell mid calf and was hemmed with ruffles upon ruffles upon ruffles.

Witches robes which had belonged to some family of his, some aunt or cousin. Witches robes which would be ripped off him and burned after he was beaten.

He clamps his mouth shut around the acrid spit starting to coat his throat, “ Um? Stomach soother… maybe?”

“Of course.” She stands, walks to the door, and speaks to someone just outside.

Snape pulled on Harry’s arm, “Well, move!”

“I - But - Wait!”

And the first night in the town house he’d wished his hair longer, long enough that it hung down more than out. Instead of scruffy, it was fluffy and wispy in a way that felt elegant and right.

Snape was marching him down the stairs.

Harry stumbled. He began to fight his Professor’s grip, “I have to change! I can’t go back there like this!”

Harry tries to collect himself. Sucks in a breath for the count of four, holds it, and whooshes it back out for another four count, just like the healers taught him. He does it again. And again. The memory continues to race through him.

“Silence! I will not let you waste anymore of my time.”

“You don’t understand! They hate magic! They’ll kill me! They hate anything from our world!”

“Then you should have thought about that before running off to strut about Wizarding London.”

He’d began to cry then. “Please, please, no!”

The woman returns, sits across from him, “It will only be a moment.”

“Arrogant, insolent boy! Quit your dramatics!”

“They’ll kill me! Please, they’ll kill me!”

“I said enough!”

“I mean it-”

With a twist and a crack and a terrible squeezing sensation they left London and reappeared in Little Whinging.

“Here.” She hands him a faintly steaming goblet.

He drinks.

Harry’d recognized the park immediately. He bit his cheek to stop the sobs. But he couldn’t stop the shaking.

He concentrated on not wishing his hair shorter, not wishing the robes skirts to slim, to wilt, the torso to loosen around his bony frame. If he performed any magic, even accidental, right in front of Snape, he’d be expelled for sure.

He’d be doomed to Privet Drive and the muggle world forever. His wand would be snapped.

He nearly fell when Snape stopped at the front door of Number 4 Privet Drive. Snape shot him a withering look. Then he knocked.

“Do I understand correctly, you don’t want to return to Hogwarts?”

“Please…” He whispered.

Snape glared, his lip curled in disgust.

The door opened. It was Uncle Vernon who answered.

“I don’t want to go back.”

“I see. No one will force you to return, but I’d like you to discuss this with your mind healer. I understand over your past two years at Hogwarts there have been some… difficulties, it’s understandable that you'd want to transfer.”

Harry’s stomach settles, “It’s not that. Not… really.”

Desperately, Harry turned to stare at Snape. The professor ignored him.

Harry willed him to look, to turn his head. Sometimes, when Snape looked at him, Harry felt as if the professor could read his thoughts. It was terrifying. It was terrifying to think that Snape _would_ turn and look at him, would see him, would know his every fear, every beating, every shameful and degrading thing the Dursleys put him through. Snape would turn and look and see and ignore what he saw. Or he _would_ see, and he'd still turn away.

He cracked himself open, let the pleading, the terror, the desperation rise in him, the panic claw at his throat and his insides. Tears pricked at Harry's eyes.

But Snape didn't look.

In a bored tone his proprofessor explained the importance of keeping Harry at home. _'Surely it isn't a difficult task.'_

He'd be caged in his room, bars on his window, again. The thought was far away and distant. It didn't matter now.

"There will be consequences should he run off again."

His breath seized.

“Oh?”

“It’s… One of my professors was sent to return me to my relatives. I begged him… but he wouldn’t let me change out of my robes. He’s always hated me, hated me since the moment he saw me..."

“Of course. You went through a lot. The healers will help.”

Harry, closes his eyes, nods, and sighs.

“Well, as for your education,” The social worker expertly shifts subjects, “you could attend Durmstrang. Or hire tutors to instruct you. However, exposure to a magical community is invaluable. Especially for a young man of your station. If you chose to study outside of school we'd recommend only doing so for a year.

“Wizarding Britain does not have child protection services like muggles do.” She clears her throat. “Recent events will change that.

“We can place you in muggle foster care. We can also make arrangements for a squib couple to take you in, parents of a muggle born, even a Wizarding family, if that's what you wish. Wherever you would be the most comfortable, we can arrange it.”

Harry stairs at her blankly, uncomprehending, “Why?”

“Why?”

“Yeah, why?”

She studies him, “I’m sorry.” She says at last. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Harry considers, rolls words around in his head, “Why would I need to live with a family?”

“To be taken care of.” She says matter-of-factly.

Harry laughs, a choked, hysterical sound. It’s a joke that anyone who knows \- as the woman before him did - what life in Surry had been like would think he needed to be _taken care of._

Suddenly, he remembers Dobby and Kreature. Something twists in his chests. How many wizards know how to use a stove? Cook their own meals? Clean a house? What about the witch before him? He tries to recall something Ron said once, about which family's had house elves.

He does. He has Creature.

“I’ll take care of myself, thank you.”

There’s a very long silence.

Hesitantly, she says, “Twelve is awfully young to be emancipated.”

“I have a house elf.”  


She nods. “I’ll see what I can do. You won’t be able to perform any underage magic.” She warns.

“That won’t be a problem.” He tries to temper his anger. It’s not her fault.

“Very well. That’s will be all for today."

He nods.

She departs.


	2. An Unexpected Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two twelve year-olds have a difficult conversation about things they don't fully understand and don't have the words for.

In a white walled room, surrounded by white curtains (and not much else), sitting a top white sheets, Harry Potter reads a book. It’s a wizarding adventure novel - the first in a series. One of the healers gave it to him.

“I hear it’s rather popular with boys your age.” She’d said. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out just because-” She cut herself off, faltered, before repeating. “Well, wouldn’t want you to miss out.”

Harry thanked her.

He kept it on his bedside table and pretends to read it whenever she’s on rounds.

He has no interest in it. 

The healers told him difficulty concentrating, trouble with memory, and lack of interest in enjoyable activities are to be expected after what happened. But this feels different. At the healer’s words he felt something coiled up inside himself, guards itself, and hissed a warning.

He doesn’t want pity. Poor Harry Potter, poor, famous boy who lived, laid up in bed with no visitors, no family, and nowhere else to go. But where else would he want to go?

Everything outside of the magically expanded space of Saint Mongos feels like a fiction. The three places that meant something to him, that he had even the smallest connection to, have all been cast in inpenitrable shadow. The events that bloodied each of their halls might as well be bars to keep him out forever. And he can’t meaningfully imagine any other place when asked to consider the subject of, “Not Here”.

But he’s read through every Witch Weekly, every Quibbler, every Daily Prophet in the entire hospital. At least, it feels that way. So he’s sitting up in bed reading the Healer’s adventure book while the words keep sliding right out of his brain. Really, he’s doing far more staring at nothingness than reading.

A voice breaks the ward’s silence.

“Come along, Neville, head up high, don’t dawdle.”

“Yes, Gran.” Comes a familiar and miserable voice.

Harry rises. With a twitch of one of the curtains surrounding his bed, he spots Neville, Neville Longbottom. The other boy trails behind a severe and elderly witch.

The two of them enter the small room housing the ward’s only other residence. Harry had met them before, a man and woman, in their late thirties perhaps. But he doesn’t know their names.

He likes them, and often sits in companionable silence with them. He started folding origami after watching the woman fiddle with her candy wrappers. When she showed interest in his work he demonstrated simple folds, the dog’s head, a fox, a tulip, a heart. He’d trade her carefully unfolded and pressed flat wrappers for the more complex crane, jumping frog, and reindeer.

When he wandered about the hospital, to other wards too loud and too unpredictable and too ever-changing, he’d bring back fizzing wizbees, fudge flies, peppermint toads, or any number of wizarding sweets he still isn’t used to. He shares them with her.

Presently, Harry steps out from behind his screen and calls, “Neville?” As Neville and his grandmother renter the main room.

Neville startles. Frozen, he stares at Harry.

Harry looks down at himself, his bare feet, the shapeless, pale-blue hospital robe. He’s well-groomed, but wonders if something about his face betrays the constant exhaustion he feels, the way nothingness creeps in around the edges of his mind. He wonders if Neville can look at him and see the awful things Vernon had done. 

Harry coughs, his throat suddenly tight and burning, an acrid taste coating his mouth. He looks back up at Neville, and catches the nudge his gran gives her grandson.

“You’re darker.” He blurts, then turns bright red.

“Neville!” His gran hisses a rebuke.

“I mean… you’re skin… you… sorry...”

But Harry smiles. His mouth feels cracked and the muscles in his face sore. He waves it off. “Accidental magic.” He says.

“Oh?” Neville asks.

And Harry has caught the grandmother’s full attention.

“Yeah. Uh...” Harry says, then hums a bit, thinking about how to explain. “In the muggle world… It’s better… People treat you better when your skin’s lighter. So, I guess, when I was real little.” He shrugs. “Magic. And it stuck.”

“Wow. That’s impressive, Harry. Really strong magic.”

Harry shrugs again. The exhaustion washes over him. The lights in the ward seem to dim and at the same time, seem too bright. “Sit with me?” He asks and pulls back the screens around his bed in invitation.

Neville looks to his gran.

“Catch up with your friend.” She commands before departing.

There are two chairs beside Harry’s bed. There’s always been two chairs beside Harry’s bed. He’s never really noticed before. He moves one to better face the other and then half falls into it.

Neville joins him. He fidgets in the silence that follows.

“It’s good to see you.” Harry says.

“Yeah… it’s um… good… to see you, too.”

“Not so good to see me like this.” Harry gestures around himself, to himself. He smiles, but Neville, who’s staring at his feet, doesn’t see it.

He doesn’t seem to hear the levity in Harry’s voice either - or maybe Harry just utterly failed to convey such a tone - because Neville says, “Yeah… Yeah… It’s… Harry, whatever happened… I’m sorry. I’m… I’m really sorry.”

The awkwardness twists in Harry’s chest. It feels like a solid wall between them. He clears his throat, sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, which suddenly burn.

“Thanks, Neville. That… yeah, it means a lot.” 

Neville smiles at the floor, a shy, self conscious thing.

“Were you…” Harry looks back to the private room, “Are they your parents?”

“Yeah.” Neville takes a moment. “They were… They were tortured by Death Eaters…” His mouth moves like he wants to say more, but no words come out.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“What are their names?”

“Frank and Alice.”

Harry nods. “I’m sorry.”

They sit in silence once more.

“Do you see them often?”

Neville shrugs, “On breaks, and twice a month over the summers.”

Harry nods.

“Are you… do you know when you’ll be… alright... again?” Neville asks.

Harry sighs, shakes his head a little, “I think… I think I’m cleared to leave Saint Mongos It’s just…” He shrugs again, “I don’t know… Where I’ll be living when I leave. And, well, I’ll probably be seeing a mind healer for...” 

The tightness returns to his chest and his vision blurs. He breaths and remembers his exercises and breaths. 

Then he remembers Neville, and shakes his head, “I don’t know for how long.”

“Is it… is it because of the stuff that happened at Hogwarts?”

Harry shakes his head, whispering, ‘no, no, no’ over and over again. He clears his throat and says it louder, “No. It’s not that at all.”

Or - A memory of Snape flashes through his mind, not the memory that’s been plaguing him lately. Snape, sneering, deducting points from Gryfandor.

Snape saying, “ _Someone might think you’re… up to something.”_ And the horrible certainty that this new and wonderful and magical world was just like the old, none of the adults listening to him, all of them believing the worst of him.

The sinking realization that he has to do something.

Then there was the Basilisk, it’s fang lodged in his shoulder, the sudden burning and just as sudden numbing that followed as it’s venom surged through his blood. The world fading into darkness and silence…

There’s Voldemort's face on the back of Quirll’s head. Quirll burning, his skin turning to ash and his skull caving in under Harry’s fingers. 

“I mean… yeah. A little bit that. Maybe.” His voice sounds far away.

“You don’t have to... I don’t mean to...”

All Harry can do is nod.

Neville sits there, across from him, miserable and helpless.

After a time, Harry says, “Do you think… you could visit me? I mean…”

“Of course. It’s just…”

“Hmm?” Harry prompts.

“What about, you know… Ron and Hermione?”

 _What about Ron and Hermione?_ It takes a minute for Harry to untangle the sounds of those words and find their meaning. It takes even longer for Harry to find an answer. “They write me…”

“They don’t know.”

“Yeah…”

“Am I your first visitor… since?”

“Yeah.”

“Harry…”

Harry shrugs again. “I just… I just… I’ve no clue what to say to them.”

“Yeah.” Neville agrees. “I think…”

“Yeah?”

“I do think you should tell them, Harry.”

“Probably should.” Harry shifts in his chair, slumps forward and looks at his bare feet, “They’d freak out.”

“Probably. They’re you know, they’re… they’re your friends.”

“Yeah, It’s just…”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I just… I just don’t - I’m different. I’ve… I’m not… I don’t think… don’t think they really know me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Neville bites his lip. He looks over to his parent’s room, “It changes people, I guess.”

But Harry’s already shaking his head again. “No. I don’t think… I think I’ve always been…” He draws in a shaky breath, “And it’s just… it’s never… never been safe to… not even to say it in my own head but… but now..”

“Say what?”

Harry’s lips thin and he clamps down on the awful feelings churning inside of him. And he clamps down on the wonderful thing he just doesn’t have the words for. He draws in a deep breath and his nostrils flair.

“I’m sorry.” Neville whispers. He squirms in his seat and looks away, “I shouldn’t-”

“It’s fine, it’s just… How… how do I tell them something I don’t… I don’t…” Harry snarls in frustration, “I can’t even explain it to myself!”

“I don’t know.” His voice is so small.

“I’ve just… I mean the Harry Potter they’re friends with it just… it isn’t me. I’ve never been me. Not really.” He sighs, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Neville shrugs a bit. “You could let them get to know the real you. I think they’d probably want to.”

“Yeah?” He sighs. His mind wanders back two years ago, to what it had been like to escape his life with Vernon and Petunia. At least, to escape that life just for the school year… “I could just.”

“Hmm?”

Could he though? Now he has friends, people who care about him, people who’d actually miss him? He shrugs. “Disappear? Go and… Be me, I guess. Someplace else.” Shame fills him at that suggestion. Ron and Hermione would be hurt.

“Not return to Hogwarts?” Neville looks alarmed at that.

Harry grins, just a bit, “I’m not returning, Neville. Doesn’t matter if I stay in touch with Ron and Hermione or not.”

“Really?”

“Yeah…”

“Not… I mean, even when you get better you’re not…”

“Yeah, I won’t be coming back.”

“What will you do?”

Harry shrugs, “I’m not sure yet.”

“Well you shouldn’t… You should let them know that at least.They… They really wouldn’t want to return to school and just… find you’ve disappeared.”

“Yeah… Yeah, I could do that. Thanks, Neville.

“Yeah, it’s… It’s just… It’s… I’m… I’m afraid… I think… To talk to them. But not to you, because you…”

“Don’t know you? Not… you know, not like you’re friends don’t know you.” He smiles a little.

Harry smiles back, “Yeah. I don’t know… It’s stupid. I don’t know why it scares me so much.”

“Well… It’s important, I guess.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean… if it didn’t matter… If… if they weren’t your friends, then.” Neville shrugs, “Then it wouldn’t be scary, I don't think.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. And you know what, Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“I think you’re the bravest person I ever met.”

Harry smiles again. It still feels foreign on his face. He straightens up and looks at Neville. Neville looks back.

“It’s important.” Harry repeats.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Thanks, Neville.”

Neville smiles for the first time since entering the hospital.

“So…” Neville says, cautiously, “Have you been here long?”

“Six weeks? I think.”

“That’s nearly the whole summer!”

“Yeah.”

“You um… need… need anything?”

“Like what?”

“Um… books, your school books, your summer homework" Neville flinches, "Uh, a deck of cards?"

He looks around at Harry's little part of the ward, confused, “Why don’t you have any of your things, if you’ve been here so long?”

“Um. I didn’t think of… that." Harry shrugs, "I don't know how to get them, anyway." His trunk would still be at the Dursleys'.

“Maybe you can ask one of your healers?” Neville shrugs.

What even happened to his things at Privet Drive? And to Aunt Petunia and Dudley? Vernon's actions tore their lives apart too. It doesn't matter, not really. He'll never see them again.

“Yeah…” Harry’s mind drifts, not to nothingness, but to his possessions - his trunk, the contents of his wardrobe. To those beautiful witch's robes Vernon had ripped off him but never had the chance to burn. He'd probably never wear them again. But that's okay, because he has more. And that's a beautiful thought.

“Thanks Neville. I think… I think I’d be a lot more comfortable in robes of my own.” Harry sighs and closes his eyes, the exhaustion has been creeping in. It seems impossible to push it away any longer. The excitement, the joy of seeing Neville and the steady companionship he offered has slipped away.

He hears Neville’s chair scrape against the floor as he stands. “Get well soon.” Tentatively, a hand touches his shoulder.

Harry just nods, eyes still closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity changes: the trunk is *back* to being locked in the cupboard under the stairs. (Seems a little too difficult for Harry to get to it and lug it around. Besides, he didn't plan to be gone for long.)  
> The closet is now a wardrobe.


	3. Unwritten Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which writing the people who love you might be the hardest thing of all.

He asks for a lap-desk, a quill, ink, and parchment, as well as a perch and owl treats for Hedwig. She taps on his window the next day and spends several hours preening his hair.

"I'm sorry girl." He whispers to her. "I didn't mean to be gone for so long."

She nibbles his ear, hoots softly, and Harry knows he's forgiven.

The healers compliment his renewed engagement with the world. They say he’s healing. Harry thinks he might believe them. They discuss the importance of finding meaning and connecting with others. Mostly, he nods along.

He asks for his school trunk. The next morning it's at the foot of his bed. He opens it - staring inside he feels nothing. There are his books, his robes, his parchment and quills. And It doesn't mean anything.

He pulls out his robes and one of the quills, uses it to break the stitches on the Gryffindor crests. He pulls each one off. Then does the same for the name tags.

He changes, and takes the hospital robes and all of Dudley's cast offs to the hearler on duty.

She looks at him.

He looks at his feet and rolls words around in his mouth.

"I don't want them." He finally says.

He separates the hospital robes from the rest, and lays his hands on the cast offs.

"I'd like to burn these."

She takes the hospital robes, folds them. "I can burn them."

"I want to do it." He picks his head up and looks at her.

She bites her lip. "You can't... It's underage magic."

"I think it would be good for my recovery."

She nods, slowly. "We'll talk to your healers, see if we can make an exception."

"Can you hang on to them?"

"Of course, Mr. Potter."

He stands in front of her, silent, before remembering what he's supposed to say. "Thank you."

He returns to his trunk, then turns back around. 

"I want to throw some things away?"

She gives him a box. "Put it in here and I'll vanish the lot."

He throws all of the Lockhart books inside, broken ink pots and quills, candy wrappers, and all the other detritus from the bottom of his trunk. With much more care, he places his Gryffindor scarf and all the crests on top.

The rest of his books, his cauldron, his telescope, he returns to his trunk. Where ever he goes next, he'll probably need them. He returns the chocolate frog cards and the jumper Mrs. Weasley knitted. He folds it, runs his hand across the 'H'.

Acquiring the rest of his possessions is more difficult.

He could call for Kreature, ask the elf to fetch his things. But Kreature has no master. He serves House Black but there is no Lord Black, no magic to force him to stay. Their truce is to stay out of each other's way. Kreature might still agree, might come when called. They're both on good terms with the portrait of Lady Black, after all. Kreature might agree.

He'd likely come back with cursed jewellery, a nest of doxies, or some other unpleasantness from the depths of the house.

It risks revealing that the house elf who would be ‘taking care of him’ was half mad and half out to get him.

And what would Kreature say? If he knew? What of Lady Black? 

He has no love for either of them. Yet they’d been his only company for weeks. And they were far more pleasant than his relatives.

His eyes burn. He draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them.

_Dirty half-blood soiled by muggle filth! Weak witch unworthy of walking my Mistress’ halls!_

No, no.

 _There's no way they could know!_ It hasn't left a mark. It doesn't matter that he feels it's seeped into his skin and bones. It doesn't matter that despite how hard he scrubs and feels it will never come off and wash down the drain. It doesn't matter how deeply _he_ feels it, no one can look at him and _know._

He won't call for Kreature.

He turns, instead, to his friends' letters. So far, all he's managed is the salutation and several hours staring at parchment.

The most recent letter from Ron speculates about the reports in the Daily Profit regarding the creation of a Wizarding Child Welfare Service. He muses about what could have caused the Wizardgomont, the DMLE, and Muggle Liaison office to take such quick action. According to his dad, this cooperation is unheard of. And his parents spend a lot of time whispering about it.

He's tempted to scratch the offending paragraphs out so he doesn’t have to look at them. He’d never been desperate enough to read those articles.

Ron writes about a visit to Egypt. His family won the lottery. Before all the mess about the Child Welfare Service the Profit was planning on running a story about it. They took photographs and everything.

Other drafts of Harry’s response are littered with questions about Egypt, but his heart just isn’t in it.

Last summer the Weasley's worried about him. Molly said she and Arthur would have come to fetch him themselves if they hadn’t heard from him soon. How much is he worrying Ron, if Harry hasn’t heard from his parents? If his friend's letters are so full of excitement?

Egypt sounds incredible. He doesn't want to spoil his friends vacation with, at worse, a dull and depressive letter, and, at best, a superficial and indifferent one.

He sets that piece of parchment aside and pulls out another. 

“Dear Hermione,”.

Her letters to him also comment on the articles in the Prophet. Muggle liaisons and representatives from the DMLE both came to interview her parents. To her consternation her parents won't discuss the topic with her.

She gushes about how the Wizarding world is doing this right, taking it seriously, if they're consulting the parents of muggle-borns. She hadn't know there wasn’t a welfare system. Unlike Ron, she doesn’t describe detailed speculations. Unlike Ron, she hopes the child involved is well.

She’s off in France. _  
_

_The Blacks have a property in France._ Harry remembers.

She'll be returning home in just two more days. He doesn’t need to worry about spoiling her vacation.

He draws in a shaky sigh. Her letter is so long and detailed, he can't find a question to ask about her vacation.

“It sounds like you’re enjoying your holiday.” He writes.

The words stall. Reading over them, they, too feel hollow and meaningless.

How can he do this?

There's nothing he _can_ talk about, at least not when it comes to himself and how is summer is going. He can't even say, _you know, same as always._ He can't lie to her. He can barely say the words to himself, it hurts so much.

_Dear Hermione,_

_It sounds like you’ve enjoyed your holiday. I’d like to travel. There’s so much out there. Even just in England! I recently discovered the nightbus. It's this giant, crazy, magical bus that will bring you anywhere, I think. You call it by sticking out your wand arm at the side of the road. They've spelled it so all sorts of obstacles just jump out of its way._

_I've gone off exploring a bit, but I don't know what else there is to see outside Diagon Alley. Still, it's been nice to wander the streets, just be someplace magical.  
_

_I wonder what other Wizarding communities are like. Maybe they have better governments, are more invested in muggle-borns. Do you know much about France's Wizarding community?_

There, something about his summer. Something not horrible and something that doesn't feel like he's dancing around something horrible. It's what started all this but... It doesn't hurt. It's safe. It doesn't matter. 

It's something Hermione might not know about. And a question about France. It's something new for her to research. He hopes she'll appreciate the thought.

He sighs, then, sets down his quill. He stares at the letter without seeing it.

He needs to tell her he won't be coming back to Hogwarts.

God, itt would be obvious, god, he'd tell her and she'd know. It's _Hermione_ after all.

 _He’s_ this unnamed victim, so brutally attacked by a muggle that the ministry is creating a whole new department to help children like him.

His tightens and his eyes burn.

_“I think you’re the bravest person I ever met.”_

He he sets the letter aside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity fixes: Harry has already learned, in detail, about the Black family. Although he doesn't know what happened to Sirius.  
> He no longer tears up the letter he wrote to Hermione. Neither does he send it.  
> Also Hedwig is super sweet. It's not important to the plot but I thought you should know.


	4. Tentative Connections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edits coming soon.
> 
> Trigger warning!  
> The rape is briefly, and, I believe, described fairly vaguely. I used *** to mark it's start and end.  
> Take care of yourselves.

Reviewing his latest letter, Harry stares at the word “heiress”. Something inside him twists and writhes. He sits with the sensation, feeling, seeing, ( _heiress_ ), unseeing. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

 _Yes, this too._ He breathes again. _Yes, this too._ He says to the swirl of emotions. 

It hadn’t made sense to him when the healers told him about this ‘exercise’. It doesn’t make sense now either. But… it does work. He lets out a long, even breath.

_Yes, this too._

He’s afraid. He’s so, so, so afraid. But he’s hopeful, too, excited, even.

 _Heiress_ . He _is_ an heiress. He’s Heiress Potter-Black…

His breaths shudder and his eyes start to burn.

Lady Black taught him what it meant to be an heiress, elegant, confident, dignified. But no one told him what it meant to be a girl, a witch, a young woman.

He sets the lap desk at the foot of his bed and curls up at the head. He starts to cry, covers his mouth with his fist to avoid attracting the healer supervising the ward. He’s good at crying quietly.

Despite this, he wakes Hedwig, sweet Hedwig. In a series of hops she comes to perch on his shoulder. She nuzzles into his neck, grooms his hair. He turns into her chest. Her soft feathers tickle his nose.

 _How can_ **_he_ ** _be a girl?_

His thoughts buzz. He’s definitely not a boy, but, _why? How?_ All this time at Grimmauld place and…

Well he’d been happy. That’s all that matters. It didn’t make sense then and it doesn’t make sense now.

It just is.

He draws in a deep breath and wipes his face. He’s not Harry Potter, has never been Harry Potter. It’s just… There’s more to this, he knows.

It’s not the fog and numbness which frustrate his thoughts now, in fact, he hasn’t felt so focused since the attack.

Harry Potter is the boy who lived. He’s famous for something he doesn’t remember. Harry Potter vanquished He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But how? What could a _babe,_ barely old enough to stand, holding the bars of his crib, do to defeat a Dark Lord? The mere suggestion that he did anything to influence the outcome of that night was ludicrous.

He lived. He’s famous for an event he took no active part in, merely witnessed and endured, made survivor instead of a corpse through means unknown. And to the wizarding world his impossible survival was enough to credit him with Voldemort’s defeat.

Harry Potter is the boy who lived in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry Potter is the starved boy, worked like a house-elf, beaten like one too.

Harry Potter is the boy everyone’s heard of with a scar everyone knows.

His is a name which turns heads. It is a name weighed down with assumptions and expectations — Lockheart’s stupid grin, the way he dragged a scrawny boy to his side as a flash bulb went off; his first lesson with Snape, _Pity. Clearly, fame isn't everything, is it, Mr. Potter?;_ the whispering breaking out as he walked to the sorting hat; Hermione reciting the titles of all the books which mention his name; Ron’s Wicked on the train; the Leaky Cauldron packed with people who wanted to shake his hand. 

He remembers, also, all those times as a child, not knowing magic was real, being approached by witches and wizards in shops and on the streets.

He could be free from all that…

He could turn away, forge an identity as a Black. He has the chance to gain renown for his own actions.

If he is to make his own way in the world, if he is to rebuild the House of Black reinstating Andromeda, welcoming her husband and their daughter, would be a strong first step.

And, as much as Lady Black’s portrait has taught him, a painting can’t compare with a woman raised as a daughter of the House of Black. She would know its secrets, its magics. She would know of the world of politics he is barging into.

Many would say he has changed the world with the defeat of Voldemort and now the creation of the wizarding child protection services. But the truth is, he has done nothing. He had been acted upon and now he would act.

He wants this heiress he is to become to rival the greatness of the Boy Who Lived.

But corresponding with Andromeda offers more than knowledge and mentorship and a powerful political statement. There is the possibility of connection.

Which brings him to his dilemma — _Heiress_ Black. Should he discarde the last vestiges of a self that never was? Or should he let her know his past and the person he was forced to be?

If she knew he had been Harry Potter she might better understand what the potential of family means to him.

And - A thought strikes him.

He signs the letter

Dear Andromeda Tonks née Black,

This summer I discovered I am heiress to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black through my godfather, Sirius Black. I have spent time at the London property, studying the history and lineage of The House, as it represents my last hope of forging family ties with those of my blood.

Bellatrix Lestrange née Black has committed heinous and unforgivable crimes against myself, my family of birth, and the entire Wizarding world. I also have significant objections concerning Narcissa Malfoy née Black. The Malfoy political stances are repugnant and her son is an ill mannered, pompous bully.

I learned your name, and little else, from the portrait of Lady Black which hangs in the entryway of the house.

She also speaks most colorfully of Sirius Black, though praises his actions at the end of the Wizarding War. All she knows is that he betrayed his best friend, my father.

I wish to know what happened. From Lady Black and the contents of his childhood bedroom at Grimmauld Place I understand that the Potters were more of a family to him than the Blacks ever were.

I would welcome any correspondence. I am currently convalescing at St. Mungo's in the long term care ward. I would be grateful if you consented to visit with me.

Respectfully Yours,

Hadriana Black née Harry Potter

He addresses the envelope and hands it to Hedwig.

“Wish me luck, girl.”

He opens the window for her, watches until she is just a speck against the horizon.

Then, he takes a fortifying breath. He returns to Ron and Hermione’s letters.

How could Ron understand Harry is a girl? How could he accept that Harry is an heiress? Stepping into the world of pureblood politics and high society. 

And Hermione? How would he tell Hermione? He could fill a letter with this discovery, this new found freedom. But surely she'd tell Ron? The two of them were her best and only friends after all. It would be asking a lot, that she keep this to herself. It would be selfish, even.

And he wouldn’t be returning to Hogwarts. He has to tell them both that. She would only have Ron. She'd know him better, know she was more deeply trusted. And she'd have to keep it to herself. He seems cruel.

He must write them. He tries, truly, he tries, to say more, to connect. But he hadn't. It seems he can't. He can't let them return to the castle, missing him, blindsided by his absence, wondering and worrying. He must send _something._

He writes, “I’ve been unwell and will not be returning to Hogwarts.” There is no salutation and no signature. He writes those words, twice, and hollowness rings inside of him. It drowns out everything else.

It’s obvious, god, it’s so obvious and they’ll know, they'll know.

He, he who vanquished Voldemort as a baby, who triumphed over that vile parasite in his first year and retrieved the philosopher's stone, he who defeated a thousand year old basilisk, the second shade of Voldemort, and saved Ginny Weasley, he, could not defend himself against his hateful muggle uncle.

Ron’s speculations run through his mind. Not a single one some much as hints at the truth. That gives him some solace. But Hermione would know. She’s Hermione, after all.

****

Although… maybe not. Harry could never have fathomed such a thing was possible until uncle Vernon threw Harry on to the bed, held him down, pressed his face into the mattress. His screams grew weak and black spots danced across his vision.

“You want to be a fairy so bad then I’ll fuck you like one!”

And uncle Vernon had touched him there .

Harry flinched away, was hit.

His uncle pressed and pressed until he was pressing inside and up against nerves Harry hadn’t known existed and they were screaming at the violation.

He’d known about that part of himself. How could he not?

But he hadn’t known … Hadn’t known what could be done to it, and that it would feel so fundamentally different from all other pain and from pain from all other parts of himself.

****

He shivers and swallows convulsively against the memories.

Maybe Hermione wouldn’t know. It is an adult thing, after all.

But he was brave, he could be brave. If not for himself, then for his friends.

He sends the letters.

Ron’s reply comes quickly. It is desperately alarmed, full of questions Harry can’t answer. Just glancing at it, folded up and returned to its envelope, leaves him exhausted.

Errol also carries a letter from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, worrying, wishing him well, offering to take him to St. Mungo’s. They say the care there is superior to muggle medicine. Surely, St. Mungo’s can cure him of his muggle illness with merely the wave of a wand.

The letter goes on to assume he is leaving Hogwarts due to the events at the end of his first and second year. It begs him to reconsider.

He responds with, “I am receiving treatment at St. Mungo’s. The healers here are excellent.”

They ask to visit him, relay Ron’s worries, as Harry still hadn’t replied to his friend's letter.

At that point, though it fills him with guilt, he stops responding.

Hermione’s letter is far less overwhelming. She wishes him well, and asks if his failure to return to Hogwarts is due to his illness.

He replies that yes, it is.

She hopes he’ll come back once he’s better, worries about him being held back a year, and inquires about his studies as he convalesces.

He tells her he’s looking into transferring, that he most likely won't be coming back. He apologizes, says he'll miss her and Ron. He talks about the other private tutors, or the idea of attending another Wizarding school. He'd looked through brochures. Durmstarng is a boys' school, so he won't be attending.

She wishes him well. She's devastated. She asks him to keep her updated.

He says she and Ron are his dearest friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity changes: Harry already knows about Andromeda so his motive for contacting her now is changed. Instead, he is starting to think about is future and the changes he as Hadriana Black wants to make to House Black and to the wider Wizarding world.  
> Little bits about Harry accepting she is a girl is added. However, she thinks it's important to introduce himself to the Tonks as Harry, and it will be the last time he is Harry, so they can better understand him.  
> Pronouns to change next chapter!


End file.
